Edith Bennett Bellamy has been writing elegantly prolix transgender erotica for the past five years. Her works appeared sporadically on various TG web sites until last May, when she opened Pink Gladiolas, her own site, which hosts all of her stories and also features current reviews of high-end TG and erotica sites. Edith lives in the Far North and may be contacted at email@example.com.
by Edith Bennett Bellamy
I awaken at six-thirty, my bladder full to bursting, a queer, humid feeling, not wholly unpleasant, between my legs. But no nausea, no more churning. Scratching my head, I stumble off to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. Standing at the toilet, I pull aside the elastic leg band of my jockey shorts with the automaticity of a lifetime.... but my fingers do not find that which for a lifetime has been there. Instead, they feel a firm mound, a mound softly cleft straight down its center like a.... like a...
I must still be asleep and dreaming! This can't possibly be! But it is! I frantically trace the cleft downwards. My fingers encounter a moist aperture which they plunge into with little resistance. At the same instant, this preposterous and insanely sensitive aperture feels ..... that is, I feel.... my fingers' abrupt entry into.... me. A sickening pause.... they are softly gripped, then coaxed deeper inside by some primordial muscular reflex beyond my control. Shocked and immobile, I stand there, like a bizarre statue, my fingers thrust deep inside what can only be a.... No! My mind balks at the word. This can't be happening to me!
I jerk my fingers out of my body as if they've just touched a hot stove. My heart turns over and misses a beat. I tear off my jockey shorts, look down and gasp to discover a perfectly contoured mons veneris, crowned by a tuft of wispy, amber hair, sparse enough so that the appalling cleft I have just probed is readily visible. Of what I formerly possessed between my legs no trace remains: I now wear the perforate badge of femininity...
The ice! Ignoring my full bladder and now fully awake, I bound back into the bedroom and yank open the fridge, grab the styrofoam container and return to the bathroom, where there's light. I slice the tape between the two halves with a fingernail and rip off the top. Two of the twelve little vials sit lower than the others. I grasp the tip of one, extract it from its cavity: it is smashed. So is the other. I hold up the container to inspect its bottom -- each cavity has a tiny drain hole; the Styrofoam is slightly damp around the ones where the broken vials are.
By now I am soaked with clammy perspiration. I don't need a Ph.D. in recombinant genetics to figure out that at least some of the vials' contents must have leaked onto the ice cubes. And each vial is enough to treat eight tons of feed! Picogram amounts are all that is needed in chickens and I might have ingested milligrams, a billion times more!
I spin around towards the mirror over the sink, relieved to see my own reflection unchanged -- except for the mound at the base of my belly with its blunt-rimmed, fleshy groove coursing downwards, like a mutilating wound, to vanish between my thighs. Its very presence is instant demotion to an inferior station in the Timeless Hierarchy of Existence, for it brands me as female -- a weak, passive, inconstant, sentimental, capricious, foolish, insecure, vapid, vain and imperfect creature -- subject, as she is, to the vagaries of the moon. A bleeder, bearer (and suckler) of babies, doer of laundry, mender of clothing, wiper of bottoms and snotty noses, soother of tears.... and a scatter-brained gossip besides. Overnight, I have been transformed into that insignificant fragment of Adam's unnecessary rib, gullible plucker of apples, despoiler of Eden: the Second Sex. What a cruel reversal of fate!
I struggle to weigh the extent of the damage, just as a soldier must do when he's been hit in combat. "This could be worse, far worse. I'm still basically me, at least I can still pass as a man until this can be fixed," I reassure myself. The wave of nauseating panic recedes, displaced by a cold, gnawing dread about my immediate future.
Speaking of which, I now, for some odd reason, recall Calvin, plumping down next to me on the bed last night after his shower, clad only in a scanty motel towel. But why am I thinking of Calvin? I'm the one with the problem, not he! Then I feel the insistent pressure of my full bladder again: mindful of a humiliating rearrangement in bodily plumbing, I lower the toilet seat and sit like a girl, straight-backed, hands primly folded in pathetic inducement of calmness. After a few moments' hesitation while I seek out the right muscles to relax (believe me, they are different!), I release my urine, which, to my mortification, sprays diffusely (though with audible force) against the porcelain inside the front of the bowl with a high, girlish fssssssss.
"Aaaah," I sigh in relief. Another long fsssss, and then Calvin lurches in through the bathroom door, buck naked, just in time to catch the end of that long, tell-tale girlish fsssss and the two short terminal fss's as I expel the last bit. He freezes, eyes popping, jaw agape. I spread my legs and daintily pat myself dry, amazed at my sudden aplomb, then stand and flush. We are facing each other, eight feet apart, speechless. We've been racquetball partners for years: Calvin knows what I have. I mean, had.
* * * * *
A masked face pops up out of the blind spot between my legs. "Hi! I'm Pam," it cheerily announces, "one of the delivery room nurses. I'm going to prep you now. Then I'll set up the mirror so you can watch baby come out. Only if you want." I nod feebly. I feel Pam slosh about a pint of cool Betadyne solution over my lower abdomen, shaved vulva and perineum. The drips plash on the shiny floor. She scrubs me thoroughly with gauze four-by-fours caught up in a hemostat. "The first one is always the worst," she prattles, pushing one knee a bit farther outwards to expose an unswabbed crease in my groin, "but it gets a lot easier with the others. I have five." My belly gets rock-hard again and I think I shall explode with the pain. "Oh, look! You're about to crown, dear," Pam chirrups, in the universal tone one reserves for small children, invalids and mental defectives. "We'll just have to hurry. Doctor will be here in a minute."
While I suffer my worst contraction yet, Pam drapes my legs and belly with green paper sheets. Then she swivels a large ceiling-mounted mirror into position and adjusts it, coming up to me and putting her face next to mine several times to look up into the mirror from my perspective, and re-adjusts it until I have a clear and unimpaired view. "How's that?" she asks. She expects -- and receives -- no response.
* * *
READ CHAPTER 1
READ CHAPTER 2
READ CHAPTER 3
READ CHAPTER 4
READ CHAPTER 5
READ CHAPTER 6
READ CHAPTER 7
READ CHAPTER 8
READ CHAPTER 9
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